Chapter 17

  “If we—or Markus—manage to establish contact with the Crytomancers, we could use that to set a trap.”

  All eyes turned toward me. Maira tilted her head ever so slightly. Vin narrowed her eyes in quiet calculation. And Simon’s expression was unreadable, like a scholar staring down a riddle too absurd to be real.

  Vin was the first to speak, her tone skeptical but not dismissive. “And what exactly would we bargain with?”

  I folded my arms, keeping my voice level.

  “Simple,” I replied. “Markus’s soul.”

  The silence that followed was immediate and absolute.

  Mouths hung open.

  Simon blinked.

  Maira’s eyes widened.

  Markus looked as though I’d just suggested sacrificing his grandmother on the hearthstone. He staggered a little where he sat, gripping the edge of the bed like the floor had just shifted beneath him.

  It was Maira who finally found her voice. Her tone was brittle with disbelief.

  “You’re not serious. Tell me you’re not serious.”

  “Not entirely,” I replied calmly, lifting a hand in a gentle, pacifying gesture. “We wouldn’t actually hand over his soul. That’s not the goal. It’s about suggesting a trade. A way to open a conversation. If Markus were to plead with the Crytomancers—if he were to offer his own soul in exchange for his son’s—who’s to say they wouldn’t at least consider it?”

  I glanced at Markus, whose knuckles had turned white around the blanket.

  “Maybe his soul is even more valuable to them,” I added, “because it’s already been exposed to corrupted mana.”

  “No offense,” I said, turning toward Markus again. “That’s not a judgment. Just... a consideration.”

  He didn’t speak, but nodded slowly, like a man who had just glimpsed the edge of a cliff and wasn’t sure whether to step forward or run away.

  Simon cleared his throat and adjusted his spectacles, the ever-analytical mind behind his eyes already racing ahead. “Your suggestion sounds completely insane,” he said flatly. “But... it might work.”

  He tapped a finger against his chin.

  “And you’re right, actually,” he added, surprising me. “A soul already in contact with dark or corrupted mana has... different qualities. Resonance. Like a material that’s already been tempered. It carries more weight in magical negotiations—especially ones that involve soulbinding.”

  There was a moment of silence as we all absorbed that.

  Then Simon continued, almost to himself now, pacing in a small circle. “The more I think about it, the stranger this entire situation becomes. I can’t understand why the Crytomancers would’ve targeted Markus’s son in the first place. Young children, especially those untouched by spellcraft, are usually considered mana-neutral. They haven’t formed strong auras. No affinity. No magical memory.”

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  “Then why?” Maira asked softly from her spot near the doorway.

  Simon paused.

  “That’s exactly the question. What kind of Crytomancer would take a neutral soul when there are stronger, more... useful ones nearby?” His eyes flicked to Markus. “Unless it wasn’t about magical value.”

  I finished the thought for him, my voice a low growl.

  “Unless it was personal.”

  Everyone looked toward Markus again.

  His face was pale, strained. His lips trembled ever so slightly. But he didn’t look away.

  “I... I don’t know why they chose him,” he whispered, almost choking on the words. “But if there’s a chance I can bring him back—trade places—then I’ll do it. I swear it.”

  Simon nodded with a resolute sharpness. “If that’s clear,” he said, his voice cutting through the hushed air, “then it’s time we forge a proper plan—for initiating contact.”

  Every gaze in the room turned again to the Warlock, whose green skin and aged features seemed almost to shimmer in the dim firelight. He stepped forward slowly, tugging at the hem of his violet coat, and cleared his throat with theatrical gravity.

  “Markus,” he began, his tone both gentle and firm, “you possess a lingering connection—an echo—between yourself and the Crytomancers. Through this tether, however faint, you should be able to reach out telepathically. They’ll feel your mind if you open it the right way.”

  Markus flinched slightly at the word Crytomancers, but he said nothing. He was pale, his lips tight, his hands twitching at his sides like leaves caught in wind.

  “I won’t lie,” the Warlock continued, “I’m no grandmaster of this particular branch of magic. But I understand the mechanics enough to guide you through it. With the right focus and intent, a brief window of conversation is very possible.”

  Simon stepped up beside him, his fingers tracing an invisible sigil in the air. “To ensure we don’t lose control of this conversation,” he said, “we’ll create a separate link—one that allows the rest of us to hear your thoughts as the exchange happens.”

  “That I can do!” Vin interjected quickly, almost excitedly, her hands already starting to glow faintly green. She looked around at the others, happy to finally contribute in a tangible way. “I’ve cast mind-threads before. A link like this—one-way only—is easy.”

  Simon’s face relaxed into a rare, approving smile. “Excellent. Just remember, Vin—the connection must remain between us and Markus. Not to the Crytomancers. Not even for a second. If they detect our presence in his thoughts, it’s over. They’ll know it’s a trap.”

  He paused, letting the warning settle deep into the bones of the room. No one dared speak. The only sound was the fire hissing softly behind us.

  Simon drew a breath. “Now,” he said, and his voice lowered, sharpened, “we come to the most delicate part of all—the conversation itself.”

  Everyone leaned in, instinctively. This was the heart of the matter. The edge on which the plan lived or died.

  “Listen carefully. All of you, but especially you, Markus.”

  The old barkeeper blinked, swallowing hard, sweat beading on his forehead.

  Simon crouched down to his level, speaking slowly and with deliberate weight. “When you speak to them, you must reveal only what you would naturally know. Nothing more. Not even a hint.”

  He ticked off each point with a raised finger.

  “You don’t know the purpose of your son’s soul.”

  “You don’t know the details of any ritual.”

  “You don’t even know who—or what—the Crytomancers truly are.”

  “In fact,” Simon added, eyes narrowing, “don’t use the word Crytomancer at all. Call them masters, or them, or the ones who control me. Let them assume your ignorance.”

  Markus nodded stiffly. “Understood.”

  “You’re a grieving father,” Simon continued, “confused, afraid, desperate. You’ve only just begun to remember. You know you were the Ice Wraith. You know they took your son’s soul. That’s your entire story.”

  “And if the conversation drifts toward bargaining,” I added, stepping forward, “you’re willing to offer your soul in place of your son’s.”

  Maira winced slightly, but said nothing. The idea still didn’t sit well with her.

  “Exactly,” Simon agreed, then looked Markus in the eye. “You speak from a place of sorrow. Pain. That’s all they’ll expect.”

  Markus sat in silence for a moment. Then, finally, he gave a trembling nod. “I… I think I can do it.”

  Simon rose to his feet, adjusting his robe. “Then we begin the setup. Vin, start weaving the thread. I guide him into the trance. We’ll be listening from here—ready for anything.”

  I took a breath and rested my hand on my sword.

  We were about to talk to monsters.